Love in the Time of Scandal (13 page)

“Mr. Weston,” he said. “May I have a word with Penelope?”

It was the first time he’d said her name. Penelope gulped and concentrated on her hands, wishing she hadn’t heard it. Then he made it worse by adding, “After all, this involves us most intimately.”

Papa nodded, and he and Mama left. The room seemed very small when it held just her and Lord Atherton. She wet her lips. “Yes, my lord?”

He sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’ve just had a very pointed conversation with your father. At the end of it, he offered me a choice, which really depends on you.”

“Which is?” Her heart lifted; a choice?

“He wants the name of the man who started the rumors.”

She bit her lip wretchedly. “I can’t tell him.” She couldn’t drag Olivia into it; whatever trouble her friend was in, drawing Papa’s fury onto her wouldn’t help. As it was, she was growing very alarmed for Olivia; if Clary would ruin Penelope this way, what would he do to Olivia? And then there was that horrible image of her father lying on Hampstead Heath, covered in blood, while Clary stood gloating over him, a smoking pistol in hand.

Atherton let out his breath as if he’d been expecting that. “Why not? Who are you protecting?”

She flinched. “No one.”

“Is it another man?” he pressed.

Penelope blushed. “No!”

His shoulders eased. “Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t marry me.”

“Except that I don’t want to!”

“My tender feelings are crushed,” he said dryly.

“Huh! We don’t even like each other,” she muttered.

“Not true, and you know it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

Her heart tried to jump into her throat for a moment. “Why?”

“Trust me a moment.” When she still didn’t move, he took hold of the arms of her chair and tugged, dragging it toward him until their knees touched. Penelope sat frozen in her seat as he leaned forward. “I don’t dislike you,” he said in that buttery-smooth voice. “On the contrary. From the moment we first met I thought you were enchanting.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, trying not to stare at the way his hair fell in dark waves over his brow. It was romantic and poetic and rakish. Damn him for being so attractive, especially close up.

“And we got on splendidly,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “At first.”

“First impressions are very unreliable.” One lock fell in a perfect curl right above his left eye. She wondered what it felt like, and then she squeezed her fingers into fists to punish them for wanting to know.

“Penelope,” he murmured, “we’re both in a very bad spot.” He lifted her hand, handling it as if it were fragile, and smoothed her fingers straight. He bent his head and brushed his lips over the pounding pulse in her wrist. “Fortunately we can save each other.”

She felt the room sway around her. Her heart seemed to be choking her. His breath was warm on her skin, and he kept her hand cradled against his cheek, where she could feel the faint scratch of stubble. Heaven help her, but something inside her thrilled at the contact. Her dislike of him had been the bulwark protecting her from her own wicked urges to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do scandalous things to her, and now he was dismantling that disapprobation, brick by brick. Soon she would be defenseless.

“I don’t think we should,” she said by way of one last effort, but her voice had lost its vigor and defiance, and become soft and almost regretful instead.

He tilted his head, peering up at her with those vivid blue eyes from beneath the rumpled waves of his hair. “I do.”

Penelope swallowed. He was still holding her hand, but barely; if she pulled, she would be free. Unfortunately she seemed unable to do anything remotely sensible when he touched her. She had never seen this side of him . . . because of course he’d never wanted to marry her before. The thought gave her a small burst of courage. “Is this how you proposed to all the other girls?”

“No,” he said. “But I think I did it all wrong before. There was something missing . . .” He eased his weight forward, sliding off the chair and onto one knee. Penelope knew what he was going to do—she even caught her breath as he leaned ever closer—and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop him. Indeed, some treacherous part of her seemed to burst into life at the prospect, until she had to grip the chair arm with her free hand to keep from reaching for him. His mesmerizing gaze never wavered from her; Penelope could only assume she was staring at him like a simpleton, unable to move or think or even breathe as his lips dipped toward hers.

She quaked at the first brush of his mouth. Like evil pixies unleashed from captivity, her thoughts spilled out in a tortured mess. How she’d imagined him falling in love with her the first time he sat in Mama’s drawing room and turned his dazzling smile on her. How she’d been so stupidly silly trying to get his attention during a barge expedition by tossing her hat overboard, and how he’d gallantly rescued it. How she’d dared him into taking her off to look for ghosts at Hampton Court, all the time hoping he might steal a kiss. How ecstatic she’d been when he sent her flowers . . . until she realized he’d also sent flowers to her mother and her sister. And even how jealous she’d been when he focused his attention on Abigail and gave everyone to understand that it was the kind, sensible Weston girl he wanted, not her.

Except . . . he wasn’t kissing Abigail now, or Frances Lockwood, or any other young lady. He was kissing
her
, his lips moving over hers lightly yet teasingly, until she barely realized that her own mouth had softened and responded. Apart from her hand, which he still held clasped in his own, he wasn’t touching her anywhere else, but Penelope felt nailed to her chair. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to move, to interrupt this breathtaking moment of unexpected tenderness.

“Marry me, Penelope,” he whispered, his mouth still brushing hers.

Her resistance was rapidly waning. “I don’t think I should,” she whispered back in honest apprehension.

“Nonsense. Trust how you feel,” he breathed, and his lips settled on hers. Penelope inhaled in surprise, and he touched her chin, nudging her lips apart and proving beyond all doubt that there was far more to kissing than she’d thought.

“Do you want me?” It was a weak basis for marriage, but she was trapped and she knew it. Any little comfort would be very welcome.

“I do.” He glanced at the door. “Enough to commit every last wickedly pleasurable act we’re accused of, right here on this sofa, if only your parents weren’t outside the door.”

Heat flooded her face, and not at the thought of her parents. If she married him, he’d make love to her. “What acts?”

His eyes glittered and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “Marry me and find out.”

She wavered and then gave in. It wasn’t as though she had much choice anyway. She nodded once.

A fierce grin crossed his face, and he leaned in and kissed her again, harder this time. “We’ll be good together.”

Penelope wasn’t so sure, but it was too late. Atherton was heading for the door to tell her parents. Even as she covertly—and unwillingly—admired the way his trousers fit as he walked, she worried that she’d made a terrible mistake. If he hadn’t kissed her—if he hadn’t managed to hit on her one great, inexplicable weakness, her attraction to him—would she still have given in? She smoothed her shaking hands on her skirt and tried to hide her anxiety. Once upon a time she had daydreamed of him kissing her and telling her he wanted her. And deep in her heart, she admitted it had been a lovely kiss, soft and seductive and far too short. She wanted him to kiss her again.

But now something her mother used to say echoed around her brain, with a particular sharpness this time:
Be careful what you wish for, Penelope. You may get
it.

Chapter 12

W
ithin a few days the deed was done.

Mrs. Weston decreed it would be a small but exquisite ceremony. Abigail was still in London, but otherwise it was just Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Atherton, and her.

Not Atherton, Benedict. She was entitled to call him by name now.

Because he had been living in the officers’ quarters, Atherton had taken a suite of rooms in Mivart’s Hotel until they could locate a house. It was very near Grosvenor Square, but Penelope still found herself hesitating as the day wore on and her trunks were brought down, ready to go. Lizzie, her maid since she was twelve, would be going with her, and she left with the trunks to make everything ready at the hotel. That left nothing for it but to bid her parents and sister farewell, and let Atherton hand her into the carriage for the short ride to Mivart’s, which was accomplished in complete silence.

She was almost relieved when a few Guardsmen were on hand to greet them. Almost, because it was apparent they had already been drinking and were intent on bearing Atherton away for a few more rounds at the nearby tavern. With hardly a glance at her, he left with them as the porter showed her up to the suite.

The hotel was blessedly quiet. Penelope had never stayed in a hotel, so she walked through the rooms curiously. Lizzie had already unpacked her things and retired, so she had the suite to herself. There was a sitting room, with windows overlooking Brook Street. She peeked out, marveling at the view, so different from the elegant expanse of Grosvenor Square she’d seen from her bedchamber at home. Even at this late hour carriages were coming and going, and if she listened very carefully, she imagined she could hear the Guardsmen carrying on at the pub. That was certainly not like home.

Well. Home was not home now. She was no longer Miss Weston but Lady Atherton. The mere name made her cross her arms protectively over her chest. How the devil had she got herself into this mess? She didn’t look, but she knew the door to her right led to a bedroom. As hard as she tried not to, she couldn’t stop thinking of the myriad pleasures Lady Constance had written of. Would Atherton do any of that to her? Would he want to? And even more importantly, would he do it as well as Constance’s lovers?

Whatever her other failings, Penelope was a realist. She saw nothing wrong with trying to direct her own fate, but she didn’t see the point in crying over unhappy circumstances; time spent crying would only be time spent not plotting how to improve her situation. And if any situation needed improvement, it was this one: married, till death parted them, to a man she didn’t much know, let alone love. A man, no less, who had wanted to marry first her sister and then her friend. A man who’d visibly lost his patience with her on more than one occasion. A man who’d nevertheless kissed her so persuasively, her sense had flown out the window and she’d somehow agreed to marry him, meaning she had no one to blame for this but herself.

For a moment she wondered why he’d been so determined to marry her. No mistake about it, he had wanted this marriage. She knew from eavesdropping on her parents that Papa had been reluctant to agree, because he didn’t think Atherton was a good match for her. Mama had disagreed, but Penelope had been more interested in her father’s words. He’d told Atherton there would be no wedding if Penelope didn’t agree to it. He’d told Atherton he would be watching carefully to see that Penelope was happy. It warmed her heart to know her father wanted her to be happy, but it also made her feel very small and selfish that she hadn’t gone to him earlier, before things went so terribly wrong.

No one to blame but herself.

Penelope took a deep breath, telling herself she also had no one to look to but herself for making her marriage happy. Atherton had wanted to marry her, for some as-yet undetermined reason, so he should be amenable. He’d looked at her bosom the night of the
incident
with undisguised interest. He wanted her. Despite valiant efforts not to, she wanted him—and now there was no reason to fight it. That was a start.

She circled the room again, investigating every little luxury and convenience. Her opinion of hotels was vastly improved when she finished, but her husband still had not returned. The clock on the mantel indicated she’d been waiting an hour.
What was he doing?
she wondered in some irritation. It was his bloody wedding night.

That thought led to another, and Penelope realized she was a married woman. Married women could read whatever they wanted, and no mother would take it away or punish her. She all but ran into the bedroom and dug through her valise until she uncovered an issue of
Ackermann’s Repository
, which held between its pages not one but two issues of
50 Ways to Sin
. Abigail had given her the missing thirty-third issue with a whispered assurance that it was a particularly delicious one. Penelope devoutly hoped so; the one with red silk ribbons had been mesmerizing. Perhaps she should leave it out where Atherton could find it . . . But before she could sit down to enjoy it, she heard the creak of the door in the sitting room. On instinct she stuffed the pamphlets back into her valise and crossed the room in time to see Atherton close the door by stumbling backward against it. His jacket was askew and his hair rumpled, and when he saw her, his mouth curved in a sly, predatory grin unlike his usual polished charm. “Good eve, lady wife,” he said, his voice rough with laughter.

She looked him up and down. “It seems as though you’ve enjoyed it thoroughly.”

“So far,” he agreed, shoving himself away from the door and ambling into the room. “Have you?”

Her brows lowered in pique. She’d been sitting here waiting for him while he was out drinking with his mates. The closer he came, the more she could smell the spirits. “Not as much as you, it appears.”

He laughed. “There were a few rounds of toasts. How was I to say no?” He pulled out a chair at the table and dropped heavily into it before taking a flask from his pocket. “Are you jealous?”

“Of drinking until I can’t walk a straight line?” Penelope sniffed. “No.”

He cocked his head and studied her. That roguish smile still lingered on his lips. “So what noble activity were you engaged in whilst waiting for me?”

“I was contemplating how on earth we’re going to make each other happy for the next several decades.” She looked pointedly at the flask hanging from his fingers. “Strong spirits will be required, obviously.”

“You think so?” With one booted foot he kicked another chair out from under the table. “Let’s have a drink, then.”

“Ladies don’t drink.”

He leaned back and picked up two glasses from the tray on the table behind him. He tipped his flask and poured a small amount in each glass. “Ladies don’t drink because they aren’t allowed by their proper and respectable mamas. You’re a married woman now. Have a drink with me.”

“Is it whiskey?” Penelope eyed the glasses in unwilling interest. Whatever he wanted her to do must be a bad idea, and yet . . .

“It’s an excellent French brandy.” His faint grin seemed to simmer with wicked intentions and hint that he wasn’t such a shallow prig. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

She hesitated a moment longer, then defiantly seated herself. “Not at all. I simply hate the smell of whiskey and wouldn’t drink it if you forced me to.”

He caught up his glass and raised it in the air with a grand sweeping motion. All his movements were loose and sweeping. “To our marriage,” he said, watching her with glittering eyes.

Penelope raised her glass. “If you insist.” She took a dainty sip. It was strong but smooth, and although it made her gasp and blink a few times, it felt warm and soft once it reached her belly.

The corner of her husband’s mouth crooked. He tossed back the entirety of his drink with one flick of his wrist, and poured more. He reached across the table and refilled her glass. “To our future.”

Better endured when foxed
, she thought, but obediently took another sip. “Are you drunk?”

“A little,” he said without guilt. “Are you?”

She licked her lip for a stray drop of brandy. “Of course not.”

“Drink up, then.” He raised his glass and tossed down his liquor as before.

“Why should I get drunk?”

Atherton shrugged and tugged at his cravat. His jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and his waistcoat was already half undone. Penelope watched from under her eyelashes as he pulled the cravat free and threw it on the floor. His shirt flopped open at his neck, giving her a view of skin all the way down his throat. He looked rakish and dangerous, unlike his usual buttoned-up self. “You don’t have to get drunk. I thought you would relish the chance to live a little dangerously.”

Penelope took another sip. It went down very easily this time, silky smooth. She took another longer drink, until the glass was almost empty. “I had hoped for something more exciting than sitting in a hotel room drinking brandy.”

He draped one arm over the back of his chair and slouched elegantly. His eyes slid over her in blatant appraisal—and hunger. “What else have you got in mind?”

When her brother, James, got drunk, he would say anything. He often wouldn’t remember half of what he’d said the next day, but Penelope had learned a variety of very interesting and useful things when he was three sheets to the wind, things she was sure even her parents never knew. She’d learned that Millie the upstairs maid had been sent away to the country not for her lungs but because she’d been carrying George the stable hand’s baby, and that George had taken a beating from the head groom before being given a wage increase and allowed to marry Millie. She’d learned that James’s mate at university, Edward, had been sent down for lewd behavior—with a male porter. She’d learned that Mr. Wilford had been a suicide and not the victim of a housebreaker as publicly believed, and that Lady Barlow’s child, born after years of barren wedlock, was really the offspring of her husband’s valet.

How James knew some of that, Penelope couldn’t imagine, but it was all fascinating. Sadly her brother had given up most heavy drinking, at least when she was around, but it struck her that Atherton might be similar. This could be her chance to get truthful answers from him on questions that had tormented her for months.

“We could talk,” she suggested, pushing her glass back across the table. “Get to know each other.”

“We could get to know each other in other ways,” he replied with another searing glance at her bosom, but he tipped the flask over her glass again. “What should I know of my wife?”

She thought for a moment, sipping her brandy slowly. Lord Almighty, no wonder men drank it by the cask. Bloody lovely stuff. She felt bold and clever and fairly invincible. “You asked me once what you’d done to earn my dislike. I denied it but I doubt you believed me, particularly since I was lying.” That got his attention. His eyebrows went up, and the hand holding his glass paused in midair. Penelope shrugged. “I haven’t been able to work out in my mind how an honorable man would turn his back on a friend of many years’ standing and allow him to be condemned—even shunned—by everyone in town.” She cocked her head and kept her expression artless. “Why did you?”

Atherton finished his drink in one swallow. “I never intended that to happen. I never wished Sebastian ill.”

“But you accused him of scheming to run off with your sister,” she pointed out.

He let his head fall back, as if he’d faced this question a hundred times and was weary to death of it. “She disappeared in the middle of the night. She was deeply infatuated with him, and I knew he was very fond of her. There were few other places she could have gone in Richmond. It wasn’t unreasonable to think she had gone to Bastian.”

Bastian. Penelope had never heard that, not even from Abby; it must have been Sebastian’s childhood nickname, and it hinted at the depth of the friendship he’d betrayed. “So you went looking for her at his house. But why did you assume he’d seduced her into an elopement?”

He gave his flask a shake, and then held it out and closed one eye, squinting into its depths. “I was fairly crazed with fear when I went after her, and said things I didn’t really believe.”

“Crazed with fear?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why?”

His eyes flashed at her, and she got the sudden sense that he wasn’t anywhere near as foxed as he seemed. Then his face eased and he thumped the flask down on the table before reaching behind him for the bottle on the sideboard. “She might have fallen into the river. She might have been set upon by highwaymen or kidnappers. She was only sixteen. I already admitted I was wrong, didn’t I?”

Penelope watched him pour a generous amount of brandy into his glass, then into hers. He was crazed with fear for Samantha, but he hadn’t gone to the river with a hook, he’d gone to Sebastian’s house. There was more to that than he was telling, but she let it go. “Then why didn’t you say anything to dissuade people from believing he murdered his father?”

He made a face. “What could I have said? I didn’t know where old Mr. Vane was. I never repeated the rumor and I never agreed with anyone who did.”

“But you never came to his defense, either, did you?” she couldn’t stop herself from replying.

Atherton’s eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened around his glass. Penelope tensed as well. “I was a young man,” he said after a moment. “Neither as sensible nor as noble as I ought to have been. I asked Sebastian’s pardon and he gave it. I never wanted him to be miserable or shunned, and I’m delighted he’s found happiness.” There was a definite note of warning in his voice.

Penelope heeded it—somewhat. There was still much more she wanted to know. She tilted her head and arched one brow. “Even though he got the girl you wanted to marry?”

He stared at her a moment, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Even though.”

“Were you very miserable when Abby rejected you?”

He sat back and shook his head, still wearing a humorless smile. “Must everything be a storm of passion and emotion with you?” He reached for his glass again. “I wouldn’t have asked her if I didn’t hope to be accepted.” He paused thoughtfully, glass raised, then added, “And the same went for Miss Lockwood, if that was your next query.” He tossed down the brandy.